


a case of you

by Anastasia_G



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anastasia_G/pseuds/Anastasia_G
Summary: It feels oddly like the morning after he broke his hybrid curse - only, he is not alone. [Bonnie and Klaus wake up magically married after a wild night together in New Orleans. AU after TVD 3X18]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story is borrowed from the amazing Dramione fic, "The Dragon's Bride" by Rizzle which is published on FF dot net. I highly recommend checking it out if you're a fan of that ship! This fic is AU after 3x18 of TVD, and I will fill in some of the gaps as the story goes along. Hope you enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts!

_I could drink a case of you darling_  
_Still I'd be on my feet_  
_I would still be on my feet_ \- Joni Mitchell

 

* * *

 

His waking mind is dimly aware of two things: he's slept outside, and he's inordinately comfortable. It's barely after dawn, he can tell by the softness of the Louisiana sun and the green coolness of dew. Lulled by the dream-like, fragrant morning, Klaus keeps his eyes closed a few moments longer. It feels oddly like the morning after he broke his hybrid curse, when he woke up feeling fleshly and alive for the first time in a thousand years. There is the same serenity, the same lush exhaustion -

\- only, he is not alone.

There's a soft, warm stirring beside him as his companion readjusts her position. His eyes fly open, glancing down at the pool of dark, tousled curls on his chest, and for a moment his mind goes curiously blank, registering a strange, _sated_ feeling rising up from his bones to spread through his limbs. Vines of blooming jasmine are curled around his ankles and hers, and his muscles feel wonderfully languid, like after swimming a bright, strong current.

Then, a breeze lifts his lover's hair.

 _Bloody throne of Hades._ His tranquility vanishes with the morning mist.

Nestled asleep naked in his arms in the middle of a Louisiana oak grove is none other than the brazen little witch who'd once almost killed him. Bonnie _you-bother-me_ Bennett.

His mind takes advantage of his momentary shock to dredge up sly bits of memory from the night prior. There had been a wedding, Caroline Forbes and Stefan Salvatore. He recalls being terrifically bored at the reception. He'd been stabbing his crème brûlée with a fork and wondering how many of the servers he could eat before anyone noticed, when the witch had appeared before him with a glass of champagne. They'd left together-

-images meld into a kaleidoscope, each one more astounding than the next. _Bonnie's head leaning tipsily on his shoulder as they made their way down Bourbon Street. A stolen kiss in the corner booth of a dim cajun cafe. Blazing down the highway in a roofless car with the little witch practically on his lap, a bottle of Moonshine shared between them. The shimmer of her periwinkle dress as she ran nymph-like through the trees, trailing laughter and beckoning him to give chase. Pearl buttons scattering like dew when he finally had her in his arms._

He can smell her now, a rich sweet scent combined with his own and with the unmistakable pungence of sex. And there's something else too, a more ethereal perfume lingering: the afterglow of magic. Klaus has the nagging feeling he's forgotten something terribly important about the events of last night, but Bonnie shifts again, her knee rising higher on his thigh, evidently as content as though she were a kitten and he a particularly warm pile of laundry.

"Mmm," she hums, nuzzling him in earnest. He hardly ever uses the camera on his phone, but just this once he wishes the device were within reach so he could immortalize this sight and brandish it as leverage for years to come.

"Rise and shine, darling," he says dryly, giving her shoulder a little shake.

Bonnie starts and raises a sleep-bleary face.

He should have delighted in watching her expressions change from confusion to shock to horror, should have relished in her frantic attempts to disentangle herself and laughed when she scooted away admonishing him not to touch her.

He should have done all this and more but his gaze stays fixed where her head had lain, and the marriage tattoo gleaming under his skin.

* * *

 

Jasmine surrounds them, dotting the tree trunk and roots with blossoms like stars. The fragrance drifts lazily in the air. They're both dusted in petals.

Bonnie knows it's futile, perhaps even silly, to attempt covering herself with her hands. Their mutual nudity aside, the incriminating memories swimming in her head, memories that she feels in no way equipped to process without the aid of heavy alcohol, leave no room for illusions about the nature of their night together.

She's glancing frantically around for something with which to clothe herself - a shred of her dress, some leaves, _anything_ \- when he speaks, his voice cold and accusatory. It instantly sets her teeth on edge.

"What have you done, _witch_?"

_"Excuse me?"_

Before she can blink he's risen lithely to his feet and walked over to her, pulling her up by an elbow and thwarting any attempt to cover her eyes. She averts her gaze, causing him to tighten his grip.

"Explain yourself," he hisses, shaking her for emphasis.

His closeness and the wild, sharp scent of him conjures up images from the night before that make her want to crawl into a hole and live out her days as a hermit.

"Believe me I wish I could," she mutters. "Hey-!"

He's pushed her against the tree that had sheltered them, pinning her arms over her head and peering intently down at her naked form. Little white flowers fall around them like snow. She squirms under his scrutiny but there's no heat in his gaze, none of the hunger her mind insists on recalling from the previous night. Instead he surveys her body like she's a haystack he's lost a particularly precious needle in.

"Stop that," he snaps, frowning at her attempts to give him an aneurysm.

She's gearing up to set him on fire when she spies the tattoo glistening mutely on his left shoulder, just above his heart. It's a familiar, magical symbol eked in jade-green ink and small, delicate runes that make her head spin when she tries to read them.

Her stomach drops.

"Klaus - _please_ tell me that isn't-,"

"Oh believe me I wish I could," he mimics sarcastically, still scouring her skin for any hint of a matching mark.

He won't find it where he's looking. She knows because as soon as her eyes landed on his tattoo she'd felt the warm responsive pinprick of magic on her own skin.

"I- I think I know where mine is," she whispers in the despondent voice of someone who's found plague spots on their body.

He glowers down at her, unwilling to relinquish his hold.

"What do you think I'm gonna do?" she snaps. "Take off running through the woods?"

"As I recall, you were _quite_ content to play Daphne and Apollo the night before," he growls.

"Yeah well, I should've made like Daphne and turned myself into a tree before you caught me, but here we are." Her own voice drips with sarcasm. Her arms hurt, and her neck is already stiff from craning to meet his eyes.

"If this is part of some plan-," he threatens.

"What _plan_ , Klaus?" Her voice reaches a fever pitch as the reality of their situation sinks in. "You think I _planned_ to sleep with you and get myself magically married?"

Her mind flashes to the previous evening. _She'd walked up to him at the reception and offered him a glass of champagne. She can't remember why. They'd ended up in that attic shop that smelled of magic and blood and incense. There were shelves jeweled with bottles of tattoo ink. And Klaus had kissed her, laughing, as she helped him unbutton his shirt._ She cringes now at the memory of her fumbling hands and his fond, warm grin.

"We went to that place together, remember?" she insists, "you got yours first, and then they - they did mine."

He blinks and she sees recollection on his face. He releases his grip so suddenly she almost stumbles.

She doesn't need to touch the mark to know it's there. She can feel it tingling, the magic woven into her cells. Bonnie turns around and sweeps her hair to the side, exposing the back of her neck.

Some small, futile part of her hopes against hope that she is mistaken. That this is all some hungover hallucination, that she'd never left the reception with Klaus, never gone to that strange shop, never let herself be marked as his wife with a spelled needle and magical ink.

Unbidden, she remembers standing just like this, under a flickering light instead of a tree, showing him her new tattoo. _She'd felt as naked as she is now, that while others had seen her undressed he was seeing her unveiled, glimpsing a part of her that was dark and joyful, a secret she had told no one else. He'd claimed the skin there with his mouth, kissed away the blood, made her tremble-_

He makes no move to touch her now.

The last of her hope drowns in his silence.


	2. Chapter 2

He supposes it's quite an artistic sight. Her nude body under the looming tree, jasmine at her feet, hair lifted delicately in one hand. Their night together has left marks. Her hips, her back, her shoulder-blades, her legs are all canvassed with his attentions. But whatever visual pleasure he may have otherwise derived is squashed under the weight of fury and disbelief as he stares at her corresponding tattoo.

It's a triskelion, like his, a mirror image in fact except for color. While his is deep serpentine green, hers is bright gold like veins of mineral beneath the skin. It glitters when she moves, slipping out of sunlight and shadow.

The longer he looks at the glowing mark, the more his stomach twists in an uneasy feeling of vulnerability and exposure. If any of his numerous enemies discovered he'd gotten himself magically married to a Bennett witch-

He can already hear the derision and outrage that would ring through the Quarter, followed no doubt by plots and traps designed to exploit this new liability.

Once again, the witch's presence in his life proves dangerous. They'd have to move quickly to rectify the situation.

She glances over her shoulder, and he remembers, suddenly, the softness of her skin and the way she'd trembled when he kissed her there. For some reason, this darkens his mood even further.

"Cover that up," he says roughly. "And let's get back to the car."

He could've sworn she flinches a little. Or perhaps it's a trick of the light, the breeze skipping over the magical mark on his chest. The longer he looks at her, the more the feeling grows, like anemone currents of awareness.

If she has questions about her tattoo - what it looks like (what it looks like to him, perhaps) - she keeps them to herself, letting her hair fall over her neck.

"Klaus?"

He's been staring. Like some hapless schoolboy.

"What about our clothes?" she asks pointedly. "And what car?"

"The car I stole for you, sweetheart," he supplies, beginning to scour the perimeter for any discarded clothes. He spots his white dress shirt between some bushes and dusts it off.

"The car you- _what_?"

"Stole. Or, rather, _Compelled_ from the owner. Some pompous fool in a dinner jacket, if I remember correctly."

"Oh my god-," he hears her whisper.

"Yes you were quite liberal in your use of _that_ particular phrase."

"You. are -"

"Terrible? Disgusting? Evil incarnate? Yes I know." He begins scouring the perimeter for more of their clothing, locating his trousers not far off. "Do be sure to add 'husband' to my long list of attributes." He stands in before her with his shirt.

She raises a quizzical eyebrow, prompting the realization that he was prepared to help her into it.

(Like a personal valet. Unacceptable)

"Put this on," he tosses it to her without ceremony and stalks off among the grass, searching for more discarded garments.

The witch holds her tongue, which almost irritates him further.

_His_ shoes make an appearance soon enough, but the heirloom cufflinks he'd had to practically extort from Elijah to complete his formal attire are nowhere to be seen.

_Fantastic. Just bloody fantastic._

The fact that, a few feet away, her bridesmaid dress lies in glittery ruin is only a small comfort.

"Is _that_ my dress?"

He pokes the gauzy fabric with his foot. "It would appear so."

She snatches up the garment in a show of righteous indignation that would have been a tad more impressive were she not currently swallowed by his dress shirt. Watching her revives that same uneasy feeling. He strains his memory for information about who might have seen him with the witch last night but comes up blank. There's a mist over portions of their night together that is only half clearing.

They head off through the trees, but their pace irks him almost immediately. She's picking her way slowly through the thick grass, barefoot and clearly exhausted.

"Here," he stops in front of her and offers her a bitten wrist.

The look she gives him is so contemptuous he may as well have offered her candy stolen from a child. "Are you crazy? I'm not drinking any more of your blood." She speaks haughtily enough but he notes the way she averts her eyes, clearly caught in the grip of embarrassing memory. He lifts her chin and examines her neck, eyeing the faint marks left by his fangs.

"A little late for these maidenly qualms don't you think, love?"

Green eyes cut him like glass. He is briefly reminded of a night in Mystic Falls years ago, and the disgusted horror on her face when he emptied his blood into a goblet for the Unlinking spell. "You know blood makes any spell stronger," her voice like ice. "I'm not giving this... _thing_ any more ammunition than we already have."

It's difficult to believe her head was pillowed on his chest mere moments ago, or that hours before that -

( _her lips had been soft and hungry as they suckled his wrist, her eyes hooded with the rush of his blood through her veins. He should have insisted she take more. But he'd been reckless and overeager, ravening to taste her in all the ways available to him -_ )

His own actions - the kisses he'd planted along her throat, the care he'd taken with the bite despite the naked hunger he'd submitted to - prove equally incomprehensible in the light of day.

For an instant he considers forcing the blood down her throat, but something about the mutinous look on her face combined with the recollection of their night together dampens his resolve in a peculiar way. Her attitude rankles of course, but then again it always had. What proves harder to expunge, what blights any trace of good humor left to him and has him sneering "Have it your way then," before striding ahead of her is not her refusal.

It's something else altogether. The incongruity of tenderness.

* * *

By some miracle, the blue Monte Carlo convertible is still parked on the dirt road where they'd left it. The icy gleam of new paint flashes in her mind.

_She'd marvelled at the sapphire color and creamy leather seats, how the vehicle smacked of old school glamor, like the black-and-white movies she used to watch with Grams. Klaus had noticed her admiring looks and smoothly Compelled the keys from their owner. She'd protested of course. They can't just_ _take_ _someone's car. But that's precisely what they did. Just took the car, her protests melting into laughter when he swung her up bridal style in his arms to carry her into their new acquisition. "Let's go for a drive, wife." He'd grinned in a boyish triumph that made her heart flutter. She'd kissed him with her arms around his neck._

She can't remember the last time she had a speeding ticket or even jaywalked. And yet, only last night, she'd happily let him carry her into a stolen car. She'd lost herself for a night and she has no idea how. There are as many gaps and clouds in her brain as there are memories.

"You are staying at the Marriott, I assume?"

"Yes...why?" she answers warily. Klaus seems as calm and self assured as though standing by a poached convertible in nothing but tuxedo pants is an everyday occurrence for him. And yet, she can sense the agitation boiling underneath. She rubs the back of her neck, willing the sensation to subside.

"I'll have your things brought to my residence. As soon as we're dressed we can return to that blasted emporium and see about having these marks removed."

"I need to call my dad," she blurts. "And I need to shower."

"Shockingly, I happen to live in a place with both electricity and running water," he informs her, sliding into the driver's side. "Get in."

"You have petals in your hair, by the way. Just thought you should know," she adds faux-sweetly, closing the passenger door.

"Thank you, _wife_. I believe these belong to you," he plucks something small and silky off the gear shift and flings it at her, and she is mortified to discover they are panties. Specifically _her_ panties, with a tear on one side. She firmly pushes _that_ memory to the back of her mind.

The drive proves more harsh on her overwrought senses than the walk to the car. The brightening sunlight hurts her eyes and her mouth is so dry it's painful to swallow. Bonnie leans her throbbing head on the window and closes her eyes. When she opens them next they're parked behind a white-columned house that engulfs half the block.

Cleary a Mikaelson residence.

She sits up and wipes drool off her chin. She feels sticky...everywhere. _Ugh_.

Klaus pauses drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to glance irritably at her. "Look alive, witch. We have a problem."

She can think of a hundred snappy responses but seeing as how nothing feels as important as getting under a shower as soon as possible, she waits for him to continue.

"I can hear people inside. Specifically, two of my siblings and two of your friends. Which means-,"

She claps a hand over her mouth. "Do you think they know-"

"I doubt they know about -," he gestures vaguely at his chest " - our _predicament_. I suspect your dear Caroline spied us leaving together and, when you had yet to turn up this morning, rushed here to your rescue with Stefan in tow."

"Oh god-," she rubs her aching forehead, already sensing Caroline's barrage of questions and Stefan's confused shock. She's hungry, parched, her muscles hurt in places they have no business hurting, and she's sitting in a stolen car dressed only in Klaus' shirt. She groans, sagging into the seat, "Forget walk of shame. I'm a float in a Mardi Gras parade of humiliation."

He opens her door and holds out his hand, "Well, let's not keep the public waiting."

She ignores his hand and climbs slowly out, folding her arms around herself as if to regain an air of dignity. "So...what, we just pretend we had a one night stand?"

"Precisely. Be sure to emphasize how you, a hapless little witch, were swept off your feet by my considerable charms, how you threw all caution to the wind when I-,"

"Keep talking and I will set you on fire right here in this street."

"Now now _wife,_ think of what the neighbors will say," he steers her toward the house by the elbow.

" _Don't_ call me that."

"As you wish, darling."

"Or _that_."

Frowning, she slips his hold and hurries back to the car and retrieves her torn dress, waving it in front of his bare chest. " Cover up your tattoo, genius. One look at that and everyone will know."

He quirks an eyebrow, running a strip of gauzy fabric between his fingers. "As ravishing as I look in drag, love, I doubt your dress is much good to anyone anymore. You and I made quite sure of that last night."

She narrows her eyes and flings the garment across his shoulder. "Just use it like a scarf until we get past the crowd."

Klaus mutters about the indignity of this entire situation but nevertheless adjusts the dress so it hangs over his chest just so. She would have laughed if her stomach weren't in angry knots.

They enter the house together.

Bonnie's not quite sure _what_ she expected when they strolled into the foyer (a foyer where Elijah, Rebekah, Caroline and Stefan all awaited them with matching looks of suspicion and disapproval) but her imagination certainly didn't extend to Elijah's greeting. She blinks like she's swallowed her own tongue, not quite sure she's heard right. Her mind goes utterly blank. She manages a glance at Klaus and finds him white as a sheet, looking just as flabbergasted as that time she strode out of the woods and nearly killed him.

The elder Original pauses from pouring brandy out of a crystal decanter, an elegant eyebrow arched in their direction.

"Ah, Niklaus. Ms Bennett, right on time." He raises his glass, "A toast? To the new Mr and Mrs Mikaelson. Although, perhaps I should not presume you would take my brother's name. This _is,_ after all _,_ the twenty first century."

Bonnie finds her limbs have turned to blocks of ice. Caroline approaches them slowly, handing Bonnie a crumpled sheet of paper without ever meeting her eyes.

Bonnie reads it once, twice. The room spins.

She's holding a signed and notarized certificate of marriage in her hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Where her brothers are concerned, Rebekah Mikaelson prides herself on two things. One, she can drink all of them under the table (the exception of course being Finn, who never drank at all). Two, she can usually tell when they're hiding something.

And as of this moment, she would wager her favorite pair of Louboutins that Klaus is hiding _something_ about his night with the Bennett witch.

It's not just the furious disbelief with which he'd snatched up the marriage certificate and glared at the signatures (legalities usually never ruffle his feathers) nor the stream of multilingual expletives that followed prompting a sharp reprimand from Elijah (for all his vagaries, Nik is not prone to public swearing), nor even the furtive glances between him and the witch (she feels sorry for the latter, she's known a few girls like that in her time, strait-laced little things that, after trying to sow all their wild oats in one night, usually woke up in a different country having lost their maidenheads and their passports too)

Instead, it's the way her brother's eyes dart suspiciously around the room, as though waiting for someone to volunteer more information.

That, and both he and the witch positively _reek_ of magic.

She loved all her siblings but she and Nik, being so close in age and alike in temper, had a special bond. They understood each other, had protected and stood up for each other sometimes against their own better judgement. Which is why his scorn about her rekindling her relationship with Marcel when they moved to New Orleans had stung so deeply.

" _Don't take it personally," Marcel murmured into her hair, affecting a boyish cockiness."He's just mad because he's still single."_

_She sighed, burying her nose in the crook of his neck and inhaling his cool, smoky scent. In the chaos and debris that was her family, Marcel had always felt safe and calm as an island. "You'd think it's_ _**my** _ _fault that his ex-boyfriend is marrying his ex-flavor of the week."_

_He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that warmed her the way sunlight never did. "It's not. But lonely people lash out, you just happen to be standing close by."_

" _I can't wait till I'm standing several countries away. Let Elijah deal with his tantrums." She rubbed slow circles on his back, memorizing the smooth expanse of skin._

_It was almost dawn and his flight to Paris left in a few hours. He would be gone for three months, a mere eyeblink to immortals, yes, but Rebekah had always thought Time measured itself not in days or hours but in loneliness, in those moments where the world and all its people are like an empty room with your words echoing off the wall._

" _I wish you weren't leaving," she said in a small voice._

_Marcel rolled her on top of him, pushing back the curtain of her tousled blond hair. His hand cradled her cheek. "Enjoy it while you can. When we've been in our little spot in Provence for a few years you'll be so sick of me you'll beg me to leave."_

" _I suppose you're right. I'll soon tire of you and assemble an army of virile young lovers instead."_

" _Hey now-,"_

" _What?" she feigned innocence. "_ _Don't_ _take it **personally**_ _ **.**_ "

If Nik had given her his blessing to be happy with someone who loved her after centuries on the run, if he had tried to understand and respect why she wanted such a thing instead of calling her "silly" and "impulsive", she and Marcel wouldn't be planning their elopement to France in secret, and she might have been inclined to act the conscientious sister now by easing the embarrassing tension in the room, to perhaps shoo the others away so Nik and the witch could have some privacy to sort out their problem.

Instead, she pulls out her phone and opens the video message she and Elijah had both received from Klaus the night before. It showed their brother and Bonnie being married in a courthouse and exchanging a passionate kiss before he the swept the little witch into his arms and twirled them around like he was in the kind of film he always snubbed her for enjoying. So much for _her_ being impulsive.

"Everyone! Look what I have here," she cheerfully brandishes her phone at the group, "Let's all watch together, shall we?"

Elijah holds out a hand in protest, "Rebekah, perhaps now is not the best-,"

She hits play.

* * *

Caroline Forbes-Salvatore has seen many strange things in her lifetime, things that would beggar belief and drive regular people out of their minds.

She's fairly certain however that the video of her best friend in the whole world, Bonnie I-look-twice-before-crossing-the-street Bennett, embracing Klaus Mikaelson and giggling like a schoolgirl as he spun her around, takes the proverbial cake.

She had been furious on three fronts when she arrived at the Mikaelson manner: at Bonnie for compromising her maid of honor duties by leaving the reception early, at Klaus for whisking her maid of honor away, and finally at herself for seeking Klaus' help with the venue and thereby owing him an invitation. As soon as she got the phonecall from Elijah she'd headed over with Stefan and a change of clothes for Bonnie in tow (I mean, she was mad but she was still a good friend), ready to unleash her wrath (with no small amount of judgement. Leaving with Klaus? _Klaus?_ ) on the best friend she thought she knew so well.

But the wedding video that Rebekah triumphantly screens for them not only freezes her anger, it shocks her into another, more uncomfortable realization.

The laughing, carefree Bonnie in Klaus' arms pierces her with dejavu, reminding her of their freshman year of high school before vampires and witchcraft and all the rest, when their biggest worry was what to wear to their first homecoming, when Bonnie Bennett laughed all the time.

They had all changed over the years, shed the layers of girlhood far before any of them were ready, but she'd never realized before just how much Bonnie, specifically, had changed. It was a quiet, dwindling kind of change that's difficult to mark. But somewhere along the way, without anyone's notice, the optimism, the radiant smiles, the sweet vivacity of a young girl eager to see the world, had vanished.

These realizations clash with her irritation and she stands there, chewing her lip, before querying awkwardly. "Can you just get married like that? I thought you could only do that in Vegas."

"It's a new ordinance the city council implemented six months ago," Elijah provides, pocketing one hand. "Extremely popular with the tourists."

"I'll ring for some coffee," Rebekah announces with an airy smile, clearly enjoying her brother's predicament. "And we can have the whole story over breakfast. I'm just _dying_ to hear about the proposal." She flashes a wicked smile, unfazed by Klaus' withering glare.

"We have a plane to catch," Caroline says, a hint of tartness in her voice.

The other blonde rolls her eyes. "Let me guess, to a totally _unique_ destination like Milan."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we're going to Athens," Caroline retorts, icily.

"Ooooh _Athens_. I'm sure absolutely _no one_ goes on their honeymoon."

"Can we please focus on the problem at hand-," Elijah tries but is summarily ignored.

"I'd rather be cliched and happy than elitist and alone," Caroline sniffs.

Rebekah cocks her head to the side, sweeping Stefan with a contemptuous look before narrowing her eyes. "You're lucky I'm not interested in doppelganger leftovers, darling."

"Okay, _that_ was uncalled for -," Stefan protests.

"Yes, well, the truth hurts-,"

A sudden gust of preternatural wind cuts through the burgeoning argument, rattling the windowpanes on its way out and hushing them all.

Caroline pushes blond strands off her face and sees Bonnie lowering her hand. Her friend surveys the room with that familiar, maddening mask of calm, as though she isn't wearing leaves in her hair, Klaus' shirt and an alarming number of hickeys.

"I'm going to take a shower," the witch announces, in a quiet but determined voice. "Then I'm going to eat something. And _then_ , I'm going to get a divorce."

Silence greets her announcement. Klaus speaks up, ushering her out by the elbow. "Excellent idea, love. Right this way-,"

"Let go of me. Just show me where the bathroom is."

Caroline has seen Bonnie save lives and avert disaster more times than she can count. She's known Bonnie as the rock, the savior, the eye of the storm, dependable as the setting and rising sun. _You left my wedding to get drunk with Klaus,_ she wants to shout. _You MARRIED him. You were HAPPY marrying him._

Bonnie stops and turns, her face betraying none of the turmoil that she must surely feel. She looks like the girl Caroline knows, calm and pragmatic. There's no trace of that other Bonnie, laughing in the video like any young bride.

Caroline hesitates for a moment, then rushes forward and shoves the small duffel bag of clothes at her friend.

"Bon, wait. You'll need this." she blurts.

The witch takes it slowly, then sighs and runs a hand through her tangled hair. "Thanks, Care. I'm so-"

"As soon as I get back-,"

They start and pause at the same time.

"We'll have brunch and I'll already be a divorcee." Bonnie says at last, offering a half-smile. "Go enjoy your honeymoon. One of us should."

And, with a wry little wave, she turns to walk up the stairs with Klaus behind her.

Caroline watches them go, and thinks maybe she doesn't know Bonnie at all.

* * *

Bonnie wants to cry in relief when the waterfall shower cascades over her softly limning the sore places on her skin and calming her scattered thoughts. Her relief is so great she can't even care that the beautiful, robin's egg blue bathroom with the marble counter tops, claw-foot tub and shower stall large enough to accommodate four people belongs to Klaus.

She would have showered in facilities belonging to Attila the Hun if it meant she could be clean again and away from the judgemental faces of everyone below.

The thought that Caroline is disappointed in her, both as a friend and as a maid of honor, rests uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. She still can't fathom what made her leave the reception with _Klaus_ of all people. But even these musings fade as she tilts her hair into the lush flow of water.

There's three shelves of expensive bodywash and shampoo. She squints at the labels - rose, lavender, cinnamon, coconut, almond, honey, cherry blossom - wondering if Klaus is secretly a shampoo collector, or if the luxuriant choices are for the benefit of his lovers.

Not that it matters to her.

She opens an unmarked bottle and immediately puts it back when the scent of cloves and musk hit her nose, triggering the memory of Klaus' skin. She settles on a citrusy scrub instead.

She's sighing happily at the puffy suds melting off her when a tingle passes over the nape of her neck.

"Ah, lemon verbena and mint. Excellent choice, wife."

The bathroom being an L-shaped one, he's not anywhere where he can see her. Nevertheless her consternation is swift. " _Get out!_ "

"Out of my own bathroom?"

"I'm taking a shower!"

"Yes, I know," he drawls. "But we have some things to discuss."

The precious relaxation of the shower is quickly vanishing. "Can't it wait?"

"As a matter of fact -,"

"What? Shower's too loud, can't hear you. Talk when I get out!"

"I said, perhaps I should join you and save us both time."

Bonnie splutters an indignant stream of protests.

"Surely as your husband I am allowed _some_ privileges," he mocks.

"I swear to god Klaus-,"

"Now that you _can_ hear me, we need to locate your cellphone to ensure there isn't any more _incriminating_ footage out in the world. We should start retracing our steps from last night as best we can, until our memories prove more reliable."

There is literally nothing that sounds appealing about walking around New Orleans with him trying to piece together their "wedding night" but, resigned to the fact that she has no one else to blame for this mess but herself, Bonnie voices a reluctant agreement.

At least, as far as she can tell, no one else knows about the tattoos. She could only imagine the reaction if Caroline and the others had discovered she and Klaus had gone one step further than a legal contract and entered into a magical one as well.

She closes her eyes and tries sinking into the quiet bliss of the shower again.

"Are you planning to finish sometime _this_ _century_ , witch?"

His dry voice interrupting her reverie is pinched with real irritation. She sighs. In all fairness, she supposes he's just as eager to wash up as she was, and for all his jibes he has not, in fact, violated her privacy.

Turning off the water she wraps herself in one of the fluffy guest towels and rounds the corner hesitantly. He's lounging against the sink, arms crossed. It strikes her that this looks like any couple, having a chat in between morning showers.

The thought is terrifying as a bug, and crushed just as swiftly.

"There's fruit and croissants downstairs, as well as a telephone. You're welcome to both."

"Thanks," she mutters, clutching her towel tightly around her. "Shower's all yours."

"How generous of you, _wife._ "

He starts undoing his belt, his laughter echoing in her ears as she hurries away muffling the urge to light him on fire.

* * *

Occasionally, he enjoys indulging human habits to an idiosyncratic extreme, the opulent bathroom with its exorbitant collection of soaps and shampoos being one of them. When one is immortal, the most simple daily routines have the potential to become amusing hobbies.

He finds that amusement evasive, however, as his mind runs through a list of everything he would have to accomplish in the next few days in order to assuage the madness of last night.

Find the tattoo parlor, ask them to reverse the process somehow (it's common knowledge there's no reversing marriage tattoos but he himself, far from being common, is immortal proof that _all_ magic has a loophole), Compel or kill any who had seen them together last night who would try to use the information against him (he foresees the witch objecting to this one) and, finally, file for a divorce (no doubt he could rely on her enthusiastic co-operation here).

Traces of her scent linger in the curling steam, teasing his senses in an annoying manner that makes him want to take a fly swatter to his face. What the bloody hell was he thinking _marrying_ her? He feels like a character in those terrible movies Rebekah sometimes forces him to watch. He should never have attended that blasted wedding.

"Niklaus, if I may -,"

"I am a bit busy at the moment, brother," he growls at Elijah's polite query.

"How odd, Ms. Bennett assured me on her way downstairs that you would be quite amenable to a conversation mid-shower. She _insisted_ , in fact."

He crushes the loofah in his hand. _Touche_ , witch."She was _mistaken_. Now, if you don't mind-,"

"Am I correct in assuming you have lost my cufflinks?"

Ah, he'd been wondering when Elijah would throw _that_ in his face.

"They are but temporarily misplaced-"

" _Lost_ , brother. The word you are looking for is 'lost', with the adjectives 'irresponsibly' and 'thoughtlessly' before it. In fact, all your choices last night could be so described-,"

"Devil take it Elijah, yes YES! I lost them. The bloody things are probably floating down the sewer as we speak, on their way to the bayou or an alligator's belly. Is that what you want to hear?"

His brother doesn't reply to his outburst. After a minute or two, Klaus hears his footsteps disappear slowly down the hallway.

_Irresponsible_. _Thoughtless_.

He glances down at the gleaming mark on his chest as Elijah's words rattle in his skull.

But something else had driven his actions last night, some powerful magic, strong enough to sweep caution and judgement aside, to make him forget about old lovers and new enemies and disappointing his brother.

And after spending centuries trying to break a curse, the thought of once more being under a magical shackle is far from pleasant. How his mother would laugh, wherever she is now.

But no matter. He would break this enchantment as he had broken hers.

Fifteen minutes later he's downstairs clean and dressed. He finds Bonnie in the solarium ending a phone-call.

"I'll be home soon. Listen to Karen okay?" she pauses, smiling into the receiver. "Love you too, Dad."

She replaces the handle and meets his eyes. Wearing a light blue camisole paired with a loose white cotton skirt, silhouetted in the sunny window, she appears clean and glistening like a water sprite fresh from a lake.

_Magic exists because we cannot bear the world as it is_ , Esther had remarked once. _It shows us different worlds, hiding around the corner._

He has never wielded magic himself, but the old masters of the Renaissance spoke in a similar vein about _chiaroscuro,_ the blending of light and dark, revealing two worlds in one frame.

And for a moment as Bonnie walks towards him in that mint-green room, among the vases full of camellias with the sunlight behind her, he sees another panel, one in which he takes her by the waist to kiss her neck and she smiles at him, there with the sunlight and the camellias and the scent of her hair.

"Klaus? Hello?"

He blinks, and the world returns to its proper place.

She's peering up at him, frowning impatiently. "Do you have a car we can use that _isn't_ stolen?"

"Oh I was about to suggest we hire a carriage to take us around town. One with bells perhaps."

She narrows her eyes. "I'm so glad you're finding the humor in this."

"You should try it sometime, _wife_." He draws out the term specifically to irritate her.

" _Don't_ call me that."

"Perhaps if you ask very nicely-,"

She scowls and huffs past him before he can finish his sentence. He watches the angry swish of her skirt as she walks away.

Magic is dangerous, can make you lose sight of your world while it traps you sure as iron and steel. And _his_ world has no place for irritable little witches nor the fanciful notions that came with them.

Klaus grabs his keys and follows her out the door.

Elijah was right. He had been thoughtless, and highly irresponsible. He needs to rid himself of this spell and quickly, before it takes any more of an insidious hold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: the views and opinions expressed in this chapter about the 1987 film "Dirty Dancing" and its soundtrack are those of the characters and do not reflect the official stance of the author who frequently enjoys re-watching the film with her mum.

_It was a truth universally acknowledged that when Caroline Forbes set her mind on something, one either got behind her or got out of her way. The former Miss Mystic Falls could keep butter from melting in her mouth if she so chose, but Bonnie knew that behind the bright smile and manicured nails lay a steely determination that, when summoned, was terrifying to witness. And Caroline was_ _determined_ _that her wedding would take place at the historic Sauvage House in New Orleans come hell or high water (though of course she had wisely chosen a date several months prior to hurricane season). Located on a small lake island just outside the city and accessible only by boat, the restored Creole mansion was naturally sought after by everyone and their aunt for all manner of events. Having seen the ruthless efficacy - unaided by Compulsion - with which her blonde friend set about acquiring a Zuhair Murad wedding gown, managing seating arrangements for over 200 people and convincing Stefan that Greece, not his ancestral Italy, would be the ideal honeymoon location, Bonnie really shouldn't have been surprised when she discovered the lengths to which Caroline had gone to secure Sauvage House as a location for the Forbes-Salvatore nuptials._

" _You invited Klaus?" Bonnie balked, throwing off her side of the embroidered duvet to glare at her friend. "KLAUS?"_

_Twas the night before the wedding and they were both tucked comfortably into a queen bed at one of the mansion's many suites. The lake glittered beyond french doors that circled the entire top and bottom floor of the house, occasionally tossing cool breezes their way._

_Caroline reluctantly pushed up her silk eye-mask, her expression the very replica of when they were eighteen and Bonnie caught her finishing the last lemon-cream cupcake that they'd baked for their sleepover._ " _I was going to tell you-,"_

" _When, Care? Before or after he ate the bridal party?"_

" _He isn't going to eat anyone-,"_

" _It's KLAUS."_

_Heaving a sigh, Caroline sat up so they were face to face. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but it was the only way I could get this place for the dates I needed. Victoria and David Beckham did their vow renewal here! And you made me promise I wouldn't Compel anyone without just cause, so-,"_

_Bonnie looked at her like she'd grown two heads, "So you thought you'd ask Klaus? The dude who terrorized all of us and had a creepy crush on you?"_

" _I know you two don't get along-,"_

" _Don't get along-,"_

" _But he was the only one I could turn to! And he was...really nice about it, well as nice as Klaus can be. And it's not what you're thinking. Stefan and I approached him together, and he agreed to help us. Please, Bon. Don't be mad." The bride-to-be wrung her hands._ " _Pleeeeease?"_

_Bonnie remained stony faced before her friend's entreaty. She was happy being Caroline's maid of honor, it was the natural culmination of their long friendship, but it was certainly no easy task. Combined with her duties on the Founders' Council and caring for a sick father, the past few months had been stressful and lonely. She'd been looking forward to the wedding reception, to kicking back with some champagne and good music and forgetting the responsibilities awaiting her in Mystic Falls._

_So much for that._

" _You should have told me, so I could prepare myself," she mumbles._

" _He's not gonna challenge you to an arm wrestling contest in the middle of the reception, Bon."_

" _Do we know that? How do you know he won't strangle me behind the h_ ors d'oeuvres _while you and Stefan are having your First Dance?"_

" _One, I told Klaus you would be there. Two, it's been years since all that stuff went down in Mystic Falls. He's got bigger fish to fry, like we all do. And three, the last time you saw him you saved his life by Unlinking him."_

_Bonnie made a noise of disbelief, folding her arms and staring at the painting of Marie Antoinette on the far wall._

" _He really gets under your skin," Caroline remarked, after a beat._

" _That's an understatement," Bonnie muttered by way of reply, picking at the delicately embroidered birds on the duvet. "That night I did the Unlinking spell... it was weird."_

" _Weird how?" Caroline's eyes grew wide and she gasped, "Oh my god, did he make a pass at you? I knew it-,"_

" _Knew what?" Bonnie demanded._

" _That he had this weird interest in you. I'd see it in his face sometimes when you were around, like he was trying to puzzle you out but enjoyed the challenge."_

" _Ugh. And no, he didn't make a pass at me."_

" _So...what did he do?"_

_Bonnie shifted uncomfortably as memory descended upon her. She didn't like thinking about that time in her life, when she'd been half girl half foot soldier. She'd never felt more alone than sitting in that dark study exchanging barbs while she dissected the spell that would save his life. She should've been terrified and flustered, anything but calm._

_But then, she'd never feared him, not really, not like the others did. Perhaps because she'd known that in his own way, he'd been as alone as she._

_Afterwards he'd led her himself past the walls of expensively mounted art and lavish, empty rooms, past the bloody tableau of Damon and Rebekah's failed romance, his hand resting on the small of her back as they drifted through that marble mansion. Dancers, alone together, in a cold and silent world._

_Bonnie flopped back onto her pillow, swallowing a strange unease that settles in her stomach, the heaviness before a storm breaks. She flung an arm over her eyes and released a sigh. "I don't wanna talk about it."_

" _Bon-,"_

" _It's okay. Really. There's like three hundred people coming, right? I probably won't even see him."_

* * *

Fortunately, her phone and purse prove easy to locate. _Un_ fortunately, it's at Gerard's, which Klaus informs her is a small bar with an exclusively supernatural clientele.

"Perhaps it's best if you wait in the car," he tells her, pausing a few feet from the door.

"What? Why?"

"Suffice it to say I am not the most popular bloke at this establishment-"

"- _shocking._ "

She's past caring how peevish she sounds. It's a warm, beautiful day in New Orleans. She should be wandering the rose and hibiscus lined streets sipping a strawberry daiquiri, pausing to admire the creamsicle-colored houses. She should be savoring these precious, precious hours away from Mystic Falls before her flight left tomorrow. Instead she's here, with Klaus, and Gerard's is only their first stop in unravelling the previous night.

His jaw clicks in annoyance. "And anyone seen _with_ me becomes equally unpopular. What's more, they become targets-,"

Bonnie rolls her eyes. "That's it? I've had a target on my back since I was sixteen and discovered I was a witch. Trust me, I can handle myself."

She tries to brush past him but he stops her before she can reach the door. His hand encircles her elbow as he towers over her, and the tattoo hidden beneath her hair tingles warmly to life.

"I am well acquainted with your methods of handling danger, and most of them if I recall end in your death. New Orleans is finally at tenuous peace, but there are still many who would seize any opportunity to enact vengeance-,"

"Let go of me-,"

"Neither of us fully understand the nature of this bond we have so foolishly entered into. All I _know_ , is that it compels me to act against my better judgement." His voice is low, almost soft. He could have been reciting poetry. "If someone were to injure you as a message to me, I cannot know what my impulse will be, and for the sake of this city and the veneer of stability my family has managed to carve out, I do not wish to find out."

He's right, she doesn't know too much about how marriage bonds work. But _something_ twines sinuously around them, pulling her down through time and memory until she can barely breathe. She's seventeen and he's holding her elbow in a dark house in a small town they both call home. She's twenty seven and a bridesmaid and he's helping her into a boat, and they're crossing a lake to leave a wedding far earlier than they should. _You coming, witch?_ He had taken hold of her elbow, and she hadn't stumbled, not one bit, when she joined him onboard. She's twenty seven and somehow his wife, and her elbow is cradled in his hand and she wants to move, blend with the currents of people walking around them and forget she'd ever met his eyes across a reception, that they'd ever crossed that lake.

Her throat feels dry, her feet suddenly unsteady. She battles an instinct urging her to sway against him in the soft afternoon, brush his mouth with her fingertips and soothe the worry she feels flowing beneath his clipped words.

"Are we clear, witch?" he asks, breaking the reverie that holds her in place.

She blinks away the fluttery warmth in her chest. "Believe me, Klaus, the last thing I want is to have _anything_ to do with you _or_ your family. Now _let go_ of me."

His hold isn't restrictive, not by any means. It's light as a feather really. But there's a weight and a promise there she doesn't dare broach.

Their eyes stay locked in a silent battle of wills before he releases her almost nonchalantly.

"Let _me_ do the talking," he instructs, as they walk through the doors.

Bonnie prepares herself to meet an army of angry, vengeful vampires. Instead, the few daytime patrons greet them with a rousing cheer, toasting their health and shouting congratulations.

They both stand frozen until one of the bartenders walks over and returns the dove-grey satin clutch containing her phone, wallet and ID all blessedly intact. Bonnie clutches her belongings like a lifeline.

"Thank you so much- Cami, right?" she manages, recalling her from the night before.

The blonde appears highly amused, "Yup. And really we should be thanking you. This place was a party last night thanks to you two."

"Oh...it was?" Bonnie questions, with a sinking dread. Her eyes land on the spotlighted karaoke stage and a host of embarrassing memories run riot in her mind. _Oh god._

Cami turns to Klaus, "I didn't know _you_ were a Patrick Swayze fan."

"The very biggest," he replies, smiling tightly. "Bonnie?"

"Right, yeah. We gotta go. Thanks for saving my purse!"

"No problem," Cami calls after them, "and I hope the video came out okay!"

* * *

He doesn't recall too much about the eighties; dreadful, dour decade that it was. But he remembers that song, having lost a wager to Rebekah that resulted in being forced to watch _Dirty Dancing_ with her. He found the movie hackneyed and cloyingly nostalgic, and the song in question seriously lacking musical quality. Cheap appeals to youthful passion didn't stir him as they did his sister. He had no use for the reckless quality of innocence nor the heedless joy of impulsive romance, save as tools of manipulation. It's what set him apart from his siblings. They would always be chasing the faded roses of their humanity, longing to feel alive again, somehow.

He was above such illusions.

The world, he'd discovered, was a drab and sinister place, but neither was there any art to be found in escapism. His siblings lived with regret, in pursuit of dreams of love and redemption. He regretted nothing, and he made of his life what he desired.

But this finely honed cynicism could not explain why he left Caroline and Stefan's wedding with the witch and rowed across a lake with her, nor lend any logic to the actions that followed. His time-honored existential philosophy could not account for why he'd taken her to Gerard's, nor why when she'd suggested taking the stage together he'd not only agreed but asked that everyone's drinks be put on his tab in exchange for him and Bonnie commanding said stage for as long as she desired.

And nothing, not all the collected lore of centuries, could explain why he'd agreed to sing _that_ song.

" _I haad the time of my life..."_

Back in the car, he lights up a cigarette as Bonnie plays the video from their time at Gerard's. He's never particularly cared for nicotine but desperate times and all that.

The phone-screen shows him and the witch dancing together onstage, singing hopelessly off-key while a sizable crowd cheers them on. Klaus sees himself bend on one knee, serenading her.

" _No I neeever felt like this before..._ ,"

He takes a long drag of his cigarette and wishes he could blot out his eyes.

The video closes on them swaying together, sharing a lingering kiss, her arms draped around his neck. The crowd hoots and applauds while he, who's never cared for gratuitous public displays of affection, continues kissing the witch, the microphone falling from his hands as he lifts her.

He lights up a second cigarette.

"Well," Bonnie says, after an awkward pause, "at least we didn't send this to anyone."

He grunts and blows smoke out the open window. Perhaps he could chain smoke his way through this travesty.

She adds, dryly. "And I guess you have a whole bar full of new friends now?"

But at what cost? He'd rather have the enemies back, thank you very much, if they came with his dignity.

He turns the engine on and pulls out into the street. "I think it's time we finally paid a visit to the lovely people at that tattoo parlor."

"You know they can't reverse the tattoos right?"

"Oh I am well aware of that." Which is why he planned to kill them individually with their own needles, record the proceedings and then video-message it to their loved ones.

"...and you also know I'm not gonna let you hurt or maim them, right?" she asks, warily, catching the grimness in his voice.

"Remind me to check 'irreconcilable differences' on the divorce papers."

He senses rather than sees her narrow-eyed stare. Being in an enclosed space with her is maddening. Even cigarette smoke can't blur the warm, citrusy scent of her. He wants her away, far away where he can't smell or see or touch her. The tattoo on his chest feels uncomfortably hot, and he's gripped by a base urge to pull over on the side of the road and just have a proper _row_ , like some blasted human couple fighting about who forgot the milk.

She remains infuriatingly silent while he parallel parks by the small alleyway off Bourbon Street.

She bustles impatiently, halfway out the car before realizing he's still finishing his cigarette. "You coming or...?"

Memory tugs at him without warning.

_Truancy becomes her._

_The lake is dappled silver and so is she. He watches her take the pins from her hair, one by one, and drop them into the water. Dark curls dance happily around her face, a face he finds both unfamiliar and intimate. When they reach the opposite shore she hesitates, glancing over her shoulder at the gold-lit mansion where her friends are gathered._

" _Go on, turn around and swim back to safety," he remarks dryly enough, but disappointment sticks to his tongue. He'd hoped - he can't name what he'd hoped, only that it was something renegade and bright, and he thought he'd seen it flaring in her eyes._

_She frowns. "I left because I wanted to."_

" _Did you now?" He raises an eyebrow. "How very unlike you."_

" _What's_ that _supposed to mean? "_

" _Bonnie Bennett, best friend and maid of honor, guardian angel of the lost and the weak," he enumerates lazily, watching her bristle. "You are not exactly full of surprises, lov -,"_

_He hadn't anticipated her moving, certainly not in his direction. But move she does, across the tiny space between them, to kiss the end of his sentence away._

_Caught uncharacteristically off-guard, his hands remain on the sides of the boat._

_Her lips are soft and cool, her fingers light along his jaw. He feels clear and empty as a glass jar. She moves, and he finds his mouth chasing hers. Again, and again._

_He is full of fireflies._

He follows her into the narrow alley, sidestepping puddles and small stone altars hidden slyly in plain sight. The buildings on either side, dotted with signs offering tarot readings and herbal cures, are full of eyes. Their windows open and close as they pass, whispers of intrigue flying behind them. His mouth twists in annoyance. Bloody witches.

_At length, his hands settle on her waist, the fingers spread wide like she's a breeze to comb through, something warm and sweet that will, inevitably, disappear._

_He pulls her close._

_Their mouths dance together. Touching, opening, breathing._

_How quiet the world is. How reverent._

He rushes up the wooden stairs two at a time, funneling his frustration into the thought of wrapping his hands around the throat of whoever pierced his skin with magical ink and bound him to the witch at his side. He remembers the dusty glass door with the iron bars, the hand-painted sign that read _Crescent City Emporium and Tattoo Parlor._

_She breaks the kiss to slip from his arms. Her smile is kittenish, daring as she climbs barefoot out of the small vessel, high-heels in one hand, trailing the gauzy hem of her dress in lakewater._

" _You coming, hybrid?"_

The door swings lazily in the afternoon, its lock and sign vanished. Klaus pushes it hard enough to dent the wall, but it's no use. The shop from last night, the shelves lined with dry herbs and pickled rat's feet and magic ink, the grimy tattooing chairs, the saints' candles guttering on the counters, all of it, is gone without a trace.


	5. Chapter 5

It's a curious feeling, being in love.

Watching Sophie water the plants on their little patio, Vincent isn't quite sure _happiness_ is the right word. It seems too trite, too banal to hold everything he feels for the witch who'd swept into his life like a quiet storm.

But perhaps that's the point.

Perhaps the real things, the things that count, aren't so easily described.

Ignoring his ringing cellphone, he turns his attention back to the thickening, fragrant rum sauce on the stove. Banana-cream french toast is keeping warm in the oven, soon to accompany scrambled eggs with bacon.

It's been a long time since he's wanted to cook for someone again. For a while after Eva's death, he let his love for cooking fall by the wayside. It had been too painful to move around the kitchen mixing spices and flavors and recalling how she loved to stick her fingers in the sauce and steal bites under his nose.

"That smells like heaven." Closing the patio door behind her, Sophie Devereaux approaches the kitchen-island and Vincent takes his time appreciating the way her green silk robe falls around her.

"Put your eyes back in your head, Griffith" she says, taking a seat at the table and crossing her long legs.

He licks rum sauce off his fingers, "Oh I like them right where they are."

She glances at his glowing phone. "You gonna pick that up?"

"Nope. This Regent is officially off the clock."

Amidst the arrival of the Mikaelsons and the flaring tensions between werewolves and vampires, the witches of New Orleans had organized themselves into small communities, each with an elected Regent. It was not an enviable position by any means, requiring one to alternate between negotiator, protector and communicator at the drop of a hat. And after years of a life where he was responsible for no one but himself, Vincent hadn't exactly jumped at the opportunity. In fact, he'd actively resisted any attempts to sway him into loyalty, trying to play all sides and no side at all in his desire to remain a free agent. All of that changed when Davina, a young witch from the city, was taken and killed by an ancient coven that, had he been more vigilant, would never have taken root in the Quarter. With Sophie's help they'd found and ousted the coven and restored a semblance of order to the many factions. He and Sophie were both chosen as Regents, and it wasn't long before their tense comradeship grew into something more.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure they can handle it without interrupting brunch," he adds, taking the sauce off the stove.

Sophie's phone starts ringing next. She reaches for the device and Vincent groans, coming around to take her in his arms. "Come on babe, we talked about this: no work on Sundays."

"A Regent doesn't get days off," she reminds him gently. They've argued about her workaholic tendencies before. After so many years being solely responsible for her coven's safety, Sophie balked at the idea of delegating.

She glances at the screen, then gives him a pleading look. " It's Moira..."

"Great," he mumbles. The bawdy old witch had nothing better to do than snitch on the neighbors, but her eagle eye also made her an invaluable resource for Regents. "This better not be like the time her rooster escaped and she had nine different covens form a search party."

Sophie swallows a giggle. "Hello? Moira? Yes I'm here...,"

He huffs, dropping his head on her shoulder.

Sophie stiffens, "He's doing _what?_ "

Vincent groans again. He's pretty sure he heard Moira say two words guaranteed to destroy his plans for a lazy, peaceful morning: _Klaus Mikaelson_.

"Of course of course. Vincent will be right over." she hangs up.

"Guess what babe," Sophie sighs, stroking his neck. "Everyone's favorite Mikaelson is tearing up the communal space off Bourbon Street."

"I changed my mind. I'll take the rooster."

* * *

It's like watching a hurricane go from category one to four in the blink of an eye.

One second they're both staring at the empty space where the tattoo shop used to be. The next, Klaus is blurring around the room in a fury. He began by punching a hole in the wall, then several. Plaster dust and bits of paint swirl like smog and still he continues, unleashing a storm of frustrated rage on the small enclosure where, the night previous, they'd gotten themselves magically married.

"Stop! STOP!"

Her cries fall on deaf ears, bouncing off the blank walls. Bonnie feels like she's losing her mind. This is the place, yet it's completely cleared of any evidence of magical tattoo making. It's almost like it never happened at all.

Except she'd seen the marriage certificate and wedding video with her own eyes. Except she remembers enough of their night together to know it was real.

Part of her wants to run screaming through the street. The other half wishes she could join Klaus in his rampage.

But recalling that impulsiveness is what started all this, Bonnie tries a different approach. Standing her ground, she summons a clear, strong voice: "Klaus, this isn't helping." She waits for him to heed her words.

The hurricane continues unabated. Now he's ripping the plaster apart with his bare hands.

"Klaus, STOP!"

She taps him gently with her magic, hoping to nudge him to his senses. Instead he storms up to her, eyes blazing amber.

"Witch," he spits, "this is all _your_ fault."

" _Excuse_ me?"

He points a finger in her face. "You did something, that glass of champagne you gave me - You wove some kind of spell-,"

She swats his finger away. "Really? This again?"

"Don't act innocent, love. We both know you have a nasty history of inconveniencing me-,"

"Yes by trying to kill you not _marrying_ you!"

"Right now I'd rather you succeeded at the former," he growls.

"Me too." She seethes, clenching her fists. "Now stop wrecking this place."

An infuriating smile dances across his lips. "Make me-"

"Don't call me th-,"

"- _wife._ "

She means to keep the higher ground, to walk away and leave him to his childish tantrum. But as far as nasty habits went, Klaus had a way of pulling her down to his level against all better judgement.

She spits the incantation like a bullet, throwing him clean across the room.

She only has a second to appreciate the thud of him hitting the wall before he's up and charging at her. She tosses him again, this time following up with a volley of aneurysms that bowl him over. His angry roar makes her giddy. A flick of her wrist and his arm breaks in three places.

She advances, magic singing through every cell in her body. Somewhere in the long months of caring for her father and playing peacemaker at Council meetings she'd forgotten how much she missed this.

* * *

_The relief she feels leaving the reception for the open corridor is momentary. Lake water surrounds her like an obsidian mirror, a serene kind of power that doesn't mock or taunt. That requires no justification for its existence._

_Caroline is looking for her, she's certain. They're about to throw the bouquet soon, and send off the happy couple on their little decorated yacht. She's happy for her friend, truly. Seeing her beaming with joy on Stefan's arm is worth the needling questions from nosy acquaintances - And when is_ _ **your**_ _special day happening? But you and Jeremy made such a nice couple! You're too pretty to be single! - the cloying smiles of girls she knew from high school whose hands now sparkle with uniform diamonds, the leering faces of their husbands-to-be._

_Being Elena and Caroline's inconspicuous friend, the quiet and steadfast eye in the storm of their lives, was a role she'd never shirked. Not when Caroline was devastated after her breakup with Tyler and practically lived on her couch for three months. Not when Stefan came to her for companionship after Elena left him for Damon. Nor when, months later, Damon and a newly-turned Elena skipped town leaving a trail of bodies and a mess she was still trying to clean up with the Council behind. Elena sent her drunken postcards from places like Mexico and the Bahamas, and she replied to each one in between driving Rudy to his doctor's appointments. Caroline and Stefan fell in love, and she dutifully cheerlead them through the highs and lows of a blossoming relationship._

_She'd read a poem in school once, about a woman trapped in the middle of a lake. She tried to escape and got caught in a storm. She died before reaching that other shore. Her little boat became a coffin._

_Bonnie curves her fingers on the wooden rail, nudging the tip of her shoe between the balusters. She closes her eyes, tastes flight on her lips._

" _It is usually the bride that commits suicide on the wedding day, love." His voice mocks her softly from the shadows. "Although admittedly, this is a clever way to steal the show."_

_Her hands tremble with anger. He'd robbed her of her solitude's charm, made it something cheap and maudlin._

" _Go away, Klaus."_

" _Oh I intend to, soon as I locate the groundskeeper's boat," he says, moving to stand beside her. "But first, about your little remark to me earlier." The champagne flute she'd given him is empty between his fingers. He toys with the slender glass almost absently. She'd felt very bold indeed when she placed it in front of him with a breezy "Here, you look like you need this," before slipping away. She doesn't feel that rush of confidence now but she tries anyway, lifting her chin and eyeing him squarely._

" _What about it?"_

_He returns her gaze in a cool, piercing manner. "I find your condescension amusing, as though you aren't every bit as bored and miserable as I."_

_She hates how easily he takes the wind out of her prideful sails. "I'm nothing like you."_

_There's a smile in his voice, the smile of a tiger scenting blood in the dark. "And yet here we are, both looking for a means of escape."_

_A breeze flutters her dress, silken ripples on a lake, like the promise of transgression. A broken mirror, a stolen boat. She tightens her grip on the bannister. "Go away," she repeats._

_He doesn't go away. He steps closer, crowds her against the railing, trails his eyes along the length of her body. It's not a lecherous assessment but a knowing one. Somehow, it feels more intimate. "Do I_ _ **bother**_ _you so?" he asks, recalling the last time they had been in each other's company. "Is that why you are trembling?"_

" _I'm going back inside." She's met with the resistance of his arm curving around her silk-clad waist. He taps her cheek with the champagne flute._

" _Why did you give me this?"_

" _Because I hate champagne," she says bluntly. He looks surprised, like he'd been expecting some profound and dazzling reason._

" _Do you now?" he muses, a speculative gleam in his eye._

_They are pressed together like a couple on the dance floor. A few adjustments and they could fall quite nicely into a waltz._

" _It's just glorified white wine with bubbles," she says. "I've always hated it, and between menu planning and the rehearsal dinner and the reception if I never taste another drop of this stupid..._ _ **soda wine**_ _it'll be too fucking soon."_

_She is startled at her own vehemence. Then, an elatedness creeps in. God it felt good to speak her mind, even about something as trivial as champagne. Weddings, she realizes, are uniquely unsuitable for telling the truth._

_Klaus grins, lapping up her scorn with relish. "Come with me."_

" _What?"_

" _Let's go someplace we can get a real drink, see the real New Orleans."_

_She balks. "I-I can't just leave...I'm the maid of honor."_

_He cocks an eyebrow, "The maid of honor who loathes champagne and seemed ready to jump into the lake?" He glances down at her hand that's resting on his elbow, like she could ward him off. "Why, you've even brought your purse."_

_Bonnie flushes, wants to insist he's wrong. She doesn't need to escape, she doesn't need to do anything except go back inside and mask herself with a smile._

" _Go away, Klaus," she repeats, quietly._

_He shrugs, relinquishing his grasp and sauntering down the corridor, towards the stairs leading to the docks. She watches his tall figure disappearing into the violet night, feverishly, the way a shipwrecked passenger gazes at driftwood. Bonnie hurries to stand atop the stairs. Perhaps...perhaps if she watched him leave, she could be content. Perhaps her restlessness would go with him._

_His steps are elegant and careless, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He barely pauses to turn his head._

" _You coming, witch?"_

_It's a daring taunt. He's challenged her. He's always challenged her. And she's always burned to prove him wrong._

_She gathers up her dress, flies down the stairs on a wing of silk_

* * *

She takes too long to gloat in her momentary advantage. Before she can strengthen her spell he's slammed her into the wall, hands pinning her shoulders. They breathe hard, eyes locked in a furious contest, like duelists who've tasted first blood.

Bonnie sets his sleeve on fire and tries to escape his hold. They twist around in a violent dance, Klaus beating his arm against the wall to quell the flames while she struggles like a bird in a net. She manages to twist most of her body away from him and hiss a quick incantation to push him off.

It _almost_ works.

Klaus wraps a foot around her ankle, the spell hits, and they tumble to the floor. She lands on her back, he on his knees. The contact with ground shifts something in them both. She can't quite explain it, but his growl makes her shudder with a peculiar alarm. They've gone too far, they always go too far. He's crawling towards her like a jungle cat, except he is far from a _natural_ predator. There is nothing natural about his gait.

Bonnie tries scooting back on her elbows but he's already upon her. Her sandaled foot lands on his chest. Magic and adrenaline has her heart galloping. He halts, looking at the leg and thigh exposed by her skirt. There's marks there, bruises and bites, that seem to burn with memory.

His eyes close, hand wrapping around her ankle. She thinks, for a second, that this mad battle-high will taper off.

She's wrong.

A swift tug and she's under him, pinned by the weight of his body, her legs thrown carelessly wide. His eyes have returned to blue but his face is still fierce, feral. Feeling in that moment too outraged, too blindly furious for magic, Bonnie slaps him. _Hard_.

His face whips to the side, not because she's strong enough, but because he leans into the blow. Still, her hand stings with satisfaction at his reddened cheek. She aims again but finds both wrists pinned above her head. She struggles and snarls, wishing she had claws of her own.

Klaus smiles that tigerish smile, having torn her again from her high, aloof ground, down to the dust and dirt with him. She sags a little, panting.

"Better?" he mocks, voice still gravelly.

She gives him a venomous a look. " _Phasmatos_ -,"

But his mouth cuts short the rest of her incantation.

* * *

It was the only way to stop the incantation being spoken. She may no longer have the power to kill him, but he didn't fancy the hair being burned off his head.

One must make such decisions in the heat of battle.

He kisses her hard, lips taking fierce possession of hers, allowing not a single word to slip between. She fights him of course, in the raging, audacious way she's always fought him. Her body squirms and writhes in protest, and he is momentarily distracted enough to loosen his grip on her hands. When he swiftly re-tightens his hold she makes a muffled sound of frustration against his mouth and twists like a furious lynx. He takes her upper lip between his teeth. A thumb finds her hipbone and pushes down.

Only, he who's always been a step ahead of his enemies hadn't thought past muting the incantation on her lips.

And sober as he is, he's starting to feel drunk on memory.

_They hadn't fought each other last night, their moments of wanton fury being reserved instead for things that got in the way of touch. Like his undershirt she'd nearly clawed off him. The lace band of her panties he'd snapped in frustration. All those endless pearl buttons on her dress, scattered on the forest floor. She'd laughed and gasped when he rent the bodice in half. They'd been real pearls too, lucent little things cultivated for delicacy. It didn't matter, nothing mattered more than her skin warm and supple in his hands. She was rippling and riverine and he wanted no boat, no oar, no raft, no shelter. Nothing, between him and her._

In fighting her he'd only grown entangled in her web. Her hip curved perfectly for his hand. The warm scent of her everywhere. Her mouth like pomelo, the magic seeded on her tongue. She, Circe, and he her vengeful beast.

"Klaus, someone's... _mmpf_ \- !"

He swallows the angry sounds in her throat, lifting her hips off the ground, locking their bodies together. She doesn't bite him, doesn't yield to that indignity. He pretends to break the kiss, only to snag her lips again, and again, granting her a small taste of triumph before seizing the upper hand. A savage lust takes hold of him to push her further, punish the power she holds over him, make her come apart.

She makes another breathless attempt. " _Klaus_ -,"

The sound of his name on her lips travels every inch of his spine.

Unfortunately, the next voice he hears belongs to someone else. It douses him like a bucket of ice water.

"What _the hell_ is going on here?"

* * *

If someone had told Sophie Devereaux that she and Vincent would one day sit down at a brunch table with Klaus Mikaelson and the witch he's apparently married, she would've laughed and complimented them on a vivid imagination.

As it stands, the Original Hybrid and his wife are both sulking in their respective places - Bonnie, in a chair at the dining table and Klaus holding up the wall - while Vincent merrily pours everyone a cup of coffee.

"Would you stop bloody whistling?" Klaus growls at Vincent.

"This is my house and I'll whistle if I damn please. It's not every day I get to entertain a newlywed couple."

Sophie tries and fails to hide her grin while Klaus glowers further.

"We're so sorry about the damage to the property," the diminutive Bennett witch speaks quietly. "I'll help fix it. And...sorry for interrupting your Sunday brunch with this. It's all his fault."

"So, in addition to being a complete _hellcat_ , you are also a liar-,"

Sophie is amused to see how quickly fire emerges behind the witch's calm facade. She whirls on the hybrid without an ounce of fear.

" _What_ did you call me?"

"A complete hellc-,"

"Now now, no fighting at brunch _lovebirds_ ," Vincent cuts off the budding argument. Sophie exchanges a knowing look with him before they both burst into loud laughter.

"Are you quite finished?" Klaus demands.

She wipes her eyes. "Bonnie, I hardly know you, but I know you deserve better."

"Thanks..."

"Oh, cut the bloody sentiments." Klaus interrupts. "How do we get rid of these tattoos? There's bound to be a loophole, there always is with magic."

Vincent looks up from pouring sauce over his french toast. "Do you two know anything about marriage tattoos?"

"Just that they're permanent," Bonnie says, looking uncomfortable.

Sophie cocks her head, "That's all? You didn't get 'the talk' about marriage tattoos from your mom soon as you were old enough to date?"

The Bennett witch sits up straighter with a look of defensive pride. "My mom isn't really in the picture. I'm mostly a "self-taught" witch." She rolls her eyes. "And, ironically, marriage tattoos weren't high on my Need-to-Know list."

Sophie raises an eyebrow."A self-taught witch _and_ you almost killed Klaus Mikaelson? I'm impressed."

"I am standing right here-," the hybrid grouses.

"Very impressed," Vincent echoes, looking over the young witch. Sophie exchanges another glance with him. Wedded to a Mikaelson or not, New Orleans could use a witch of her caliber.

Sophie sprinkles cinnamon in her coffee and eyes the couple again. "Our ancestors devised these tattoos for one purpose: making arranged marriages work."

Bonnie looks pale. "So...they make people fall in love?"

She shakes her head, "Magic can't make anyone fall in love. There's limits to its power, and the ancestors respected that."

Something flickers across the younger witch's face, but it disappears quickly. "So...what can it do?"

"The tattoos heighten physical attraction and loosen your inhibitions...for a time. It gives the couple a 'honeymoon phase', gets the marriage started with a bang." Sophie thinks back to her mother's stories. "Some folks say they come up with the idea of marriage marks to end a war between two rival covens."

Klaus makes a derisive noise. Bonnie ignores him, giving Sophie her full attention."So they aren't permanent?" she asks, with visible relief.

"No, they're not. Eventually the magic wears off, but by that time the couple can at least tolerate each other." Sophie adds wryly, "Or there's a baby on the way, succession is ensured, and everyone can rest easy."

Vincent snorts, "I have aunts that've threatened to tattoo me in my sleep if I didn't give them grandbabies soon."

Sophie feels her mouth drop open. "Okay...so that settles it. We're doing Thanksgiving with _my_ folks."

Klaus rolls his eyes. "Well now that we've arrived at _that_ momentous decision..."

Sophie cuts him a look, but her usual distaste is tempered when she notices evidence of scorching on his left sleeve that is undoubtedly the result of battle magic. She grins into her mug. She's starting to like Bonnie Bennett more by the minute.

Bonnie clasps her hands around her own cup of coffee. "How long does this 'honeymoon phase' last?"

"Three months," Vincent supplies.

"Why three?" Bonnie asks.

"Three is the number of possibility and choice." Vincent points his fork at the gold triskelion on the back of her neck. "That's why all marriage tattoos have some kind of triplicate design."

Bonnie rubs her nape, looking cautiously relieved. "So three months? After that it's over? The tattoos go away?"

"Not on their own, no," Sophie says, apologetically.

"Of course not. Bloody witches," Klaus mutters, earning him a glare from all three in the room.

Sophie turns to Bonnie again, "Anyway. You have to find the person who tattooed you and get them to remove the mark. It's kind of like going to the courthouse you got married in to file for a divorce."

"More like an annulment," Vincent mutters.

She adds, seeing the gleam of another question in Bonnie's face. "And you can't get them removed _before_ the three months are up. Not if...,"

She trails off, looking at Vincent for help. He busies himself with a second helping of french toast and avoids her eyes. She nudges him with her foot.

"What is it?" Bonnie asks, glancing between them both.

Vincent stays focused on his plate, ignoring her escalating kicks. _Dammit Vin_.

"For Hades' sake woman, out with it," Klaus growls.

Sophie sighs, tapping her mug delicately. "You can't get them removed before the three months are up if the marriage has been... consummated."

The word floats and hovers in the air. Bonnie's slender arms wrap around herself, as though warding off the truth.

* * *

It's Klaus who breaks the silence, moving to stand behind Bonnie. "Who does that shop space belong to?"

"It's communally owned," Vincent informs him. "A space for any visiting witches to use when they need it. I'm sorry to say your tattoos could've been done by anyone."

"And before you say anything else," Sophie begins in a firm voice, "we're not gonna help you terrorize the covens looking for answers."

The hybrid smirks, resting his hands on the back of Bonnie's chair."I hardly think your help is necessary. In case you haven't noticed, I have a capable witch on my side. Self taught and quite impressive."

Bonnie snorts, shifting away. "What happened to 'hellcat'?"

"A term of endearment, love."

" _Right_." She rolls her eyes. "And anyway, I'm going back to Mystic Falls tomorrow."

"Like bloody hell you are."

"It's not up for discussion, Klaus."

Sophie sips her coffee. Vincent chuckles into his.

Bonnie rises smoothly, gathering her purse and paying no attention to the hybrid. "Thank you both for the information. I'm sorry we had to meet like this... You've been so helpful; there isn't much in the way of witches where I'm from."

"Well there's a whole city full of them here," Vincent remarks, dryly. To Sophie's surprise, he scribbles his number on a napkin and hands it to Bonnie. "If you ever fancy being introduced to some of the covens, give us a call next time you're in Louisiana."

"Oh... thank you." She smiles, clearly moved by their offer.

"Witch, if you mean to flounce off home before we've sorted out this mess-"

Bonnie's smile disappears. "I already said it's not up for discussion-,"

"Like hell it isn't-"

Sophie watches them go - arguing all the while - with a tinge of wistfulness. There's a grace and dignity to Bonnie that reminds her of witches from the old families. Young as she is, she's clearly seen more than her fair share of life. And this entanglement with Klaus Mikaelson will no doubt test her even more.

She waits until the door closes behind the couple before turning to her boyfriend. "Weren't you complaining that too many people have your phone number?"

He shrugs, "I felt bad for the kid."

"Man," Sophie muses after a few more sips of coffee, "all the times we've gone head to head with Klaus Mikaelson. All those plots and curses, when we should've just tried marrying him to a local witch."

Vincent grimaces. "Name one local witch in her right mind that would agree to that."

"...point taken."

* * *

She hurries away from the apartment building with Klaus snapping at her heels.

"Witch, do not presume to walk away from me-",

"Oh I'm not presuming."

Unfortunately, striding ahead of someone much taller than you is doomed to failure. For every corner she turns and street she crosses, she hears his footfall behind her, close as a shadow.

He snorts. "Are you trying to _walk_ back to Mystic Falls?"

She swallows a tart retort. The last thing they need is to get into another fight. Her head is throbbing from the strong output of magic. Her lips feel raw. She can still taste cigarettes and spearmint on her tongue.

"If I have to, yes."

He drops the facade of trailing behind her. An arm takes her waist, and she's pressed to his torso. It happens so quickly it's almost a dance. She thinks how they must look like lovers to the people around them. But his hold, casual enough to the observer, feels like a barricade.

He takes hold of her chin, forcing her gaze up. "What in that miserable little town so urgently demands your attention, hmm? It can't be the doppelganger, last I heard she and Damon were drunk in some Parisian gutter. The Lockwoods have relocated, and Caroline is on her honeymoon. So tell me, what lost cause are you championing this time?"

She looks away, chewing the inside of her cheek. It's not fair. She didn't want to give him any more of herself. He's already taken more than she intended to yield. He has _no_ right to anything else.

"Whatever or whoever it is, I am sure I can _persuade_ them to spare you for three months-,"

"My dad has Alzheimer's."

He frowns. She can tell he's rifling through his brain, narrowing down the list of human ailments he's heard of _this_ century. "Alzheimer's...,"

"It's a degenerative brain disease that causes severe dementia," she adds sharply. "I don't know how much time he has left, so no Klaus, I'm not about to spend three months away from him chasing down some magical tattoo artists."

People move and push past them as the sky softens to grey. His eyes search her face, head tilted to the side like he's assembling a puzzle.

"And I suppose you are his only caretaker."

And just like that, they're back on that balcony on Sauvage, and he's taken the measure of her life with an ease that borders on cruelty. Bonnie shuts her eyes. This trip was her one chance at a brief holiday, instead she's landed in a another mess that needs attending. Another lake she's trapped in the middle of. No matter how she tries, her wings are always clipped.

_She remembers climbing out of that boat after she kissed him, dizzy with rebellion. It all seems like a dream now. Running through those woods in her pearl-buttoned dress. She'd always been so careful with her clothes, much less something like a bridesmaid gown. But when he'd caught her, torn the delicate bodice, she'd reveled in his hunger, partaken of it like wine. She'd wanted him to chase and catch and kiss her. She'd wanted to ruin her dress._

She takes a breath, a second to remember where and who she is. "Look, you don't need my help finding those witches. I'll be right back here in three months so we can get the tattoos removed. For now I just...I just want to enjoy the rest of my day off, okay? So please...please just let me."

There's no boat this time, no heady rush of escape. Klaus releases her as smoothly as he'd taken hold. When she opens her eyes he's gone, there's no shadow, and the faces surrounding her belong to strangers.

* * *

It's a curious feeling, being in love.

Sophie had spent years running from it, scrupulously avoiding any hint of that giddiness, that loss of control. Too much depended on her keeping a level head on her shoulders.

But Vincent hadn't swept her off the ground, hadn't thrown her life into chaos as she'd feared. He'd steadied her, given her something to lean on. And if there were moments she felt a little lighter on her feet, like maybe gravity wasn't pulling as hard, well, she'd learned how to lean into those too.

Lying tangled up with him while the afternoon rain beads their window, she feels a bit of that lightness now, the relief of not having all the answers.

His fingers trail up and down her back. "So, those tattoos..."

"Hmm?"

"You sure left a few things out," he chuckles.

The "few things" being that the honeymoon phase had an unpleasant side, particularly if the couple were apart from each other. Moodiness and morose bouts of yearning, along with heightened emotional resonance, were the side effects of trying to circumvent the pull of the magic.

The ancestors were quite ruthless in their way.

She shrugs, straddling him. The tangled covers slip off their bare skin, and he hums in satisfaction when his hands settle on her ass.

Sophie bends down, her hair falling like a curtain, like a raincloud.

Vincent arches into her. She brushes his mouth with hers. "Some things are better learned from experience."


	6. Chapter 6

Rebekah finds Elijah in what's become his usual spot: the greenhouse.

He'd built it two years ago, citing a need for a place he could retreat into when "the family was behaving abominably", which everyone knew as an euphemism for "when _Niklaus_ is behaving abominably."

She picks her way beneath the wide lush leaves to where her brother is perched on a stool in his shirtsleeves delicately trimming an orchid, setting down one of two glasses of blood she'd brought from the kitchen.

"Thank you," he murmurs, carefully removing a stalk before wiping his hands on a rag and picking up his glass. "I thought I heard Niklaus return already. It would appear divorce proceedings are remarkably expedient these days."

She grins, taking a sip. "I wouldn't know, but he returned minus the witch and...his left sleeve. Looks like she burned it off."

"I'm glad to see Miss Bennett has lost none of her spirit," he says, dryly, examining the leaf of a monstera deliciosa.

"Too bad she lost some of her wit last night and married him. Poor girl."

Elijah sets his glass down and and returns to pruning the orchids. Rebekah watches him wondering for the umpteenth time how both he and Nik could stand hobbies that require so much stillness and concentration. It seems dreadfully dull having to sharpen all five of your preternatural senses into one laborious task. She herself much preferred dancing or movies or long walks to clear the mind, and thankfully Marcel feels the same.

"If I were you, I would be thanking Miss Bennett," her brother replies. "Niklaus is going to be far too distracted to uncover your secret plans to flee the country."

"I'm not _fleeing_ anything," she retorts. "I'm...eloping, because it's much simpler."

Elijah raises an eyebrow in lieu of comment.

"And anyway, it won't be a secret once we're married in Provence. Nik is welcome to visit us anytime."

"An offer I am certain he will accept _graciously_ ," Elijah remarks.

Rebekah makes a face. "I'm going to tell him, alright? But he's got such a bloody bee in his bonnet about me and Marcel...,"

She trails off, considering Elijah's earlier words. Nik's been a right curmudgeon since they'd returned to New Orleans. Once the thrill of establishing themselves anew in the city had passed, he'd grown moody and restless, chafing against the same leisure she and Elijah embraced with relief. After centuries living a paradoxical existence - immortal but hunted, powerful but fugitive - the freedom that came from Esther and Mikael's proper demise had bowled them over. But none of them felt the change more keenly than Nik. He'd spent so long as the defiant half-son fighting for his right to exist, he had no clue how to live any other way. She recalls the young man he'd once been, his playful nature and open heart, his dreams of travel, his little stash of charcoal sketches. He had his own studio now, and the means to travel where and when he might. But that wide-eyed, impulsive nature was gone.

Although...

She reconsiders the wedding video on her phone. Bonnie's giddy laughter. The grin on Nik's face as he twirled his new bride in the air. The shock of the marriage notwithstanding, she'd seen a spark, something like a hint of his old self.

Perhaps Elijah had a point. This could be the answer to her dilemma. If Nik harbors any regard for the witch...

Elijah regards her sternly, like he's already guessed her intentions. "The look on your face does not bode well, sister."

"You tend to your orchids, brother." She pats his shoulder with perfect innocence. "I'll see to Nik. Poor thing probably needs some advice."

"Rebekah," he warns. "Might I remind you the _situation_ with him and Miss Bennett is volatile enough without you interfering-,"

"Oh relax, 'Lijah." She says, sauntering off under the areca palms and fiddle-leaf figs. "I'm just going to ask him about his night. _If_ he decides to see the witch again, it certainly won't be _my_ fault."

" _Rebekah_ ,"

She waves with an impish little smile and closes the greenhouse door behind her.

* * *

If she's learned anything from her brothers and their stodgy hobbies, it's biding one's time.

She waits until after supper and finds Nik holed up in his studio mixing paint, surrounded by a number of finished canvasses constituting the collection that's occupied his time for the past three years: a series of meditations on New Orleans, its people and its buildings, its graveyards and houses, its past and present, the hurricane-rutted roads, the hibiscus blooming through wire fences.

The last piece, nearly complete, looms behind him in a blend of grey and purple, a twilight haze in the center of which, if one gazes long enough, the fluid figure of a man in a striped suit grows subtly visible. It's an image rendered with enough skill as to approach optical illusion, but in the right angle, with the right knowledge, the motif is recognizable as Papa Legba, Guardian of the Crossroads.

Under normal circumstances, her brother's mood is calmer and more expansive when he's about to finish a painting. A sharp contrast to the scowl he wears now, and the savage way he's dabbing at the pots of oil paint.

She decides to tread cautiously. "You're almost finished with the collection. It's quite good."

"I'm in no mood for facetiousness, sister. What do you want?" he growls, not taking his eyes off the paint.

_Touchy_. But, nothing she hadn't dealt with before. Having brothers for a millenia taught you patience, if it taught you nothing else. "Actually, I came to apologize," she says very penitently indeed. "For earlier, showing the video like that. It was rude of me."

He grunts. "Reached your credit limit again, have we? Call the banker, or take my card. Just don't bother me with the details."

Reigning in her irritation for the greater cause, Rebekah sits down on the settee and folds her hands. "I'll have you know I'm being sincere. I'm sorry for the jibes, but you would do no less if our positions were reversed," she points out. "Remember that time I stepped in a cow pat trying to get Frederick's attention?"

"Yes, what a pity video phones weren't around in our youth," he drawls. But his expression eases somewhat.

She continues, looking down at her nails, "I take it you and the witch argued about the terms of divorce?"

He grunts again. "In a manner of speaking."

"What, is she suing you for alimony or something?" she asks lightly, sensing a deeper truth to his agitation. Encounters with the Bennett witch, no matter their nature, never failed to leave an impression on her brother. Come to think of it, it's strange they hadn't fallen into bed earlier.

He continues stirring paint with a darkening frown.

"What is it?" she cajoles. "You don't actually _care_ about her, surely?"

"Don't be ludicrous."

"Then why do you look like someone's shoved a stick up your arse?"

He swears, tossing his brush across the table. Jaw locking in frustration, he pulls the neckline of his shirt to reveal a glistening, tri-pointed green tattoo high on the left side of his chest.

"Is that- ?"

He mutters under his breath, "A bloody marriage tattoo. Yes."

It takes all Rebekah's self-control to keep the corners of her mouth from curling. No wonder he and the witch stank of magic that morning.

She knew about marriage tattoos - what they did, how they worked - having developed a curious obsession with them as a young girl. She'd pestered her mother with questions and, having exhausted Esther's patience, taken her curiosity to Ayanna as well. Esther had been disdainful of how the magic trammeled you to your baser desires, while Ayanna had gently assured her that, when the right man came along, she wouldn't need any magic to seal the deal.

"Well?" Klaus grouses. "Are you going to say anything?"

She schools her face. "Who tattooed the both of you?"

He snaps a paintbrush in frustration. "That's the bloody problem. Neither of us remember what they looked like. Whoever they are, they don't want to be found."

_This gets better and better._

She has to refrain from rubbing her hands together in glee. Between searching for the witch or warlock responsible and experiencing the effects of the tattoo, her brother would be well and truly distracted.

Rebekah summons a curious look. "Can't Bonnie help you trace the source of the magic? It might take a while, especially if they've tattooed others, but-,"

"The witch is returning to Mystic Falls tomorrow," he informs her curtly.

"And you plan to let her?"

He tosses the broken paintbrush into the bin. "Short of imprisoning her in our basement - which I had considered - I doubt she'll be dissuaded. Her father is ill with something called Alzheimer's disease. It's a-,"

"A degenerative condition that affects the brain, causing dementia and eventually death," she finishes smoothly. "Terrible affliction."

He looks more than a little taken aback.

She flips her hair with a dash of triumph. "I keep telling you and Elijah how informative public television is, but do you listen?"

He scoffs. "In any case, she won't stay unless I force her hand, which would defeat the purpose of procuring her help. But Vincent is far too busy, Sophie would never deign to help me without coercion, and I don't fancy dragging anyone else into this -," he waves his hand agitatedly, " -business."

"Let Bonnie go," she suggests, reexamining her nails with the right amount of nonchalance.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I've known girls like her," she continues. "They balk if you get in their way but truthfully, they don't know how to ask for help."

"Are you suggesting I relocate to Mystic Falls and help nurse her dying father?"

She taps her the sofa arm with her nails thoughtfully. "No. This is what you do: send her off with as much care and concern as you can muster, tell her you'll handle all the details and to not worry about a single thing. Be _charming_."

Klaus wears a look of distaste. "Play the dutiful husband? Why? To what purpose?"

"Because, you daft prick, of a little thing called _reverse psychology._ "

"Another insight from the archives of public television?" he asks with a scowl, but gestures for her to continue.

"It'll catch her off guard. She's used to being the fix-it girl, she won't know what to do if _someone else_ is doing the fixing. Give it a few weeks and she'll be chomping at the bit trying to help you."

He looks skeptical. Rebekah rises with a shrug. " _Or_ , you can proceed as you usually do like a great bull in a china shop. It's none of my concern."

She slips away, quietly relishing the troubled look on her brother's face and congratulating herself on seeds well planted. She might make a gardener yet.

As soon as she's in her room, she dials Marcel.

"Hey there, beautiful," his warm easy voice flows over her. "How's your night?"

A smile dawns across her face. "Just fine, darling. But you'll _never_ guess what Nik's gotten into-,"

* * *

Bonnie surveys her luggage in the early morning light of the small suite. Her clothes are packed away in the medium sized brown suitcase, her purse resting on top. She's dressed in her favorite travel jeans and cardigan, with the blue camisole from yesterday. Her room service bagel and fruit sits half-eaten next to the bed from which her bare feet dangle.

There's several hours until her flight leaves New Orleans and she's oddly restless. The relief she expected to feel at putting miles between herself and the events of two nights ago is markedly absent, and a dull loneliness throbs in its place.

She'd made herself a small list of things to see and do. Yesterday - the day she and Klaus had spent learning there's frustratingly little they could do about their predicament - was supposed to involve botanical gardens and beignets and museums. She's supposed to have a suitcase crammed with tourist paraphernalia and a phone full of memorable selfies. Instead, she had a magical tattoo, a ridiculous video singing karaoke with Klaus, and a head full of wild and disconcerting memories.

Her stomach rumbles, prompting her to take another bite of the bagel. She chews slowly, half-heartedly.

At least she'd managed to try crawfish during her visit.

* * *

_The booth is so small that she's practically in his lap. They haven't spoken of the boat, or the kiss given and returned. Instead they'd kissed some more, in a variety of locations. The back of the cab ( much to the driver's chagrin that Klaus had silenced by casually tossing him a hundred dollar bill without so much as loosening his hold on her), against a streetlamp on Bourbon Street with her ankle wrapped around his leg, in line at the restaurant. It was a dance, a rhythm their bodies understood without question. There was a logic and an ease to it that demanded, and made it easy to, surrender._

_The crawfish is messy, coating her hands and mouth in salty wetness. She keeps pausing to use napkins, her fingers slow, trying to work with finesse._

_Klaus has no such compunctions. The shells yield to his fingers, his lips and teeth revelling in the prize. Tear, peel, suck, bite. He eats with gusto and practiced ease, unashamed of appetite. She can't look away._

" _Here," he sees her looking and takes the crawfish from her hand. "Hold it by the head and tail, then twist." It's a small, graceful violence. He peels away one or two rings of translucent shell, delicately, like threading a needle. She is pierced with an almost envious longing._

_Without thinking, Bonnie uses her mouth to pluck the salty-sweet flesh from his hand; inexplicably, it tastes better this way. Her tongue drags along his finger until his eyes are dark as river stones._

_She licks her lips. "One more?"_

* * *

Her phone pings with a notice from the airline. She drops her bagel.

**Bonnie, your Upgrade to First Class is confirmed. Thank you for flying United Airlines.**

She calls the customer service number instantly.

"Hello? I'm calling about a change in my ticket-,"

"Ticket number and date of birth please."

She reads off the info from her phone.

There's an immediate, palpable change in the agent's voice. The perfunctory tone thickens with deference. "Hello Mrs Mikaelson. What can I do for you today?"

"Mrs-," she gapes, then recovers her words. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake, I didn't authorize any upgrade-,"

The agent giggles. "Oh I'm sorry, we thought he must have told you by now."

"Excuse me?"

"Your husband. Mr Mikaelson called this morning and arranged everything. An agent will meet you at the ticketing counter to process your check-in and escort you to our First Class lounge. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

She briefly considers explaining that she is not, in fact , Mrs Mikaelson before realizing how swiftly that could go left with airport security measures. "Thank you, no."

She's barely hung up the call when there's a knock on her door that leaves no doubt as to who her visitor might be. No one could make a knock sound so self aggrandizing.

Sure enough, she finds him standing almost politely at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back, looking freshly showered and far too innocuous in a white Henley and bomber jacket.

"You changed my ticket," she says by way of greeting.

He appears quaintly puzzled. "I'm sorry, were you actually excited to fly _coach_?"

She huffs. "That's not the point."

"Enlighten me then," Klaus replies, angling his head. "You professed a need to return home, I ensured your trip would be a comfortable one."

She opens and closes her mouth. She'd expected remonstrance, all night and morning she'd waited for some move on his part that would prevent her from leaving. An upgrade to first class had not even entered the realm of possibility in her mind.

"Is it so terrible for a man to indulge his wife?" he asks as a slow smile spreads across his face. He looks, in that moment, so boyish and gallant as to nearly disarm her. She spirals between the memory of him pinning her into the floor in that vacant shop, and crawfish and salt-sweet kisses.

"You're not just a man, and I'm not really your wife," she says, quietly, puncturing the illusion.

Klaus shrugs easily, "Semantics, love. If we are to resolve this issue, why not be amicable?"

"Now you want to be _amicable_? With me, the hellcat?" she raises an eyebrow.

He gives a throaty laugh. "Come now, we both know you relish your claws."

Bonnie shifts her weight, uncomfortable with his proximity.

"I realized you were right," he continues. "I am quite capable of finding the culprit on my own. My methods of hunting are tried and true."

"So...you're okay with me going back to Mystic Falls?"

"Perfectly. Your father is your main concern, as he should be. In fact, when our three months are up, I shall fly the witch responsible to Mystic Falls so you may have your mark removed in the comfort of your own home."

"Oh...," she blinks in surprise. She'd prepared to fight him, and now she doesn't feel prepared at all. She's going home, in first class no less. And she'll never have cause to return.

"You alright, love?"

"Yes...I mean- ," she shrugs a little ruefully, toeing the carpet. "- this just isn't how I pictured my trip to New Orleans. I mean, I got magically married but I didn't even try beignets. Who does that?"

Klaus pockets his hands. "You know, City Park is quite beautiful this time of day. I often sketch there in the mornings. And, their cafe serves beignets."

"Really?" she folds her arms, "I thought Cafe Du Monde was the best place to get beignets."

"Hogwash and tourist propaganda," he retorts, with a hint of outrage.

"I'll remember that for my next trip," she says dryly.

"Actually, I'm on my way to the park right now if... you would like to join me."

"My flight leaves in a few hours-"

He puts a hand on his chest, "I give you my word, I will deliver you to the airport with time to spare."

"...and the last time I went somewhere with you we got crazy magical tattoos."

And there's that smile again, easy and mischievous and a dimple in one cheek. "So the worst has already happened. You've married me, Bonnie. Why not let me show you a park, and buy you some beignets?"

Without the gravity of anger, her emotions scatter in reckless, wilful ways. Sophie's words flicker and die in her brain. _The tattoos heighten physical attraction...loosen inhibitions._

She should've stayed angry. Held onto it like a shield and an anchor. She should close this door, thank him for the ticket, and send him on his way.

"Okay...," she hears herself say. "Just for a little while."

* * *

He's not quite sure why he invited her to the park.

It was true, he came here often in the early mornings and evenings to catch the light (Marcel had declared the park a No Supernatural Activity zone - and edict he upheld as well - which meant the space remained an oasis of tranquility in the otherwise teeming city) but he never brought company. In fact, he treasured the hours he spent here and resented any intrusion. He'd tried to explain this to his siblings, once. Elijah had nodded sagely and remarked on nature's power to soothe vampiric tempers. Rebekah had waxed nostalgic, recalling the long walks they took together as children stealing away from a home that, in the end, was no home at all. But he gave up trying to make his meaning known to them, to explain that it was neither hope for salvation nor yearning for lost innocence that brought him here to the river and the ducks and the trees heavy with time and draped in spanish moss. That after spending centuries labelled an abomination, a thing that even vampires looked askance at and that both natural and supernatural forces had tried to extinguish, he had no desire now for reconciliation with or return to a world that had wished his death.

Instead, without any illusions about belonging to nature, he simply desired to be in it. Sit in the sunlight and the moonlight and casually catch the eyes of passing strangers, knowing that against all odds and gods, he'd arrogated to himself the mundane right of existence others took for granted each day. To sit on a bench with his pencil and sketch pad and delight in the monstrous irony of it all.

Perhaps, he thinks, watching Bonnie feed the swans - perhaps this explained his lifelong pull towards witches. There was something perversely satisfying about getting close enough to touch what nature considered one of her purest embodiments.

When Bonnie eventually resumes her seat next to him, reaching for her bag of beignets, he discreetly flips the page on his sketchbook and begins touching up an older drawing. They sit this way for a while in a strange, companionable silence, her presence like the scent of an orange being peeled in a crowded room, a bright, renewing awareness that enhances without disturbing.

Clearly those meddling ancestors knew what they were about when weaving this magic. For at that moment, despite his foreknowledge and plans, his frustration with himself and the witch, he is also curiously content to have her seated there, to sense her and smell her while his pencil moves across the page.

"Thank you, for the ticket," she says at length. "And for...understanding, about my dad."

Her expression is earnest, her eyes soft and sweet. Rebekah's plan is seemingly working, yet an uncomfortable warmth flares in his chest.

He clears his throat, deciding to satisfy his curiosity. "Is there truly no cure for his ailment? Not even with your considerable magical ability?"

She flinches a little and heaves a sigh, her face telling him all he needs to know.

"So...you've tried," he deduces. "And the Spirits denied you."

"How did you know?"

"Because I would do the same, in your place," he says evenly. "And because I'm well acquainted with the remonstrance of the Spirits."

She gives a wry grin, "They _were_ really eager to help me kill you."

He finds himself returning the smile. "I remember."

"It was Grams who brought the message," she says suddenly, chewing the inside of her cheek. "She showed up as I was casting and told me I already upset the balance once when I brought Jeremy back to life. If I did it again, the Spirits would cut me off. Even she wouldn't be able to help me then."

"Effective method of persuasion," he remarks with distaste. Of course they would punish her for the naivete of young love by preventing her from saving her father. It was just the sort of cruel and arbitrary stance they'd taken on his hybridity. "Surely you were furious?"

She shrugs. "I was...at first. I didn't listen, I tried spell after spell, spent whole weeks looking up Grimoires and scrolls. All that time I could have been spending with my father." There's a pause and she dusts some powdered sugar off her cardigan.

He waits for her to continue.

"Then one day I looked at the calendar and realized three whole months had passed since his diagnosis, and during that time I'd never sat with him after dinner, never watched an old movie together, never cooked his favorite dish. I was trying so hard to save him that I was losing him anyway." There's a bittersweet twist to her mouth. "So, I decided to take my grandmother's advice for once, and just enjoy what little time I have left with him."

He digests this in silence, reflecting on that other name for witches: _servants of nature_. It appeared the Spirits had finally succeeded in checking the ungovernable power of her determination to protect her loved ones from their fates. He experiences a combination of resentment and admiration. The former, because he did not believe in any higher authority placing checks and balances on power. And the latter...the latter because, even in her acquiescence, she manages a regality that's unwavering.

Perhaps, he merely envies her.

Klaus leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and watching the river. "And what of your anger?"

"Oh I'm still angry," she admits, with a self-deprecating laugh.

He smirks, recalling their altercation in that empty shop. "That's what I thought,"

"Okay, my turn to ask a question."

"Oh?" he sits back up, resting his arm along the back of the bench.

"It's only fair. Tit for tat, like they say," she points out, a hint of playfulness in her tone.

His eyes drop almost unconsciously to the smudge of powdered sugar between her breasts. "Indeed."

"Stop that."

He looks up from under his brows as if to say, again, _Make me._

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she says, crossing her arms. The gesture, unfortunately, does nothing to detract from her cleavage.

"You're hardly helping, love."

"Why were you at the wedding?" she asks, abruptly.

"I was invited."

She purses her lips. "You know what I mean. Why did you really come?"

"Because I knew I was not wanted there."

Bonnie lifts her eyebrows.

"If Caroline and Stefan had thanked me for my help and been on their way, they would've seen the last of me. It would've been an honest transaction, and I admire honesty," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "But I can't abide pity. And that is precisely what their little invitation was."

"So...you came exactly because you knew they didn't want you there?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I wanted to close the chapter on my own terms."

"By watching Caroline marry Stefan?"

"... _and_ Stefan marry Caroline."

He waits for the words to sink in.

"Oh...you and Stefan... _oh._ I knew it!"

"Did you now?"

She nods in triumph. "He acted so strange around you, and you seemed almost hurt that he didn't drop Elena the moment you showed up. Makes _total_ sense in retrospect."

He is only mildly offended at this assessment, being fascinated instead by the subtle play of expressions across her face.

"You couldn't have your ex boyfriend back, so you decided to pursue Caroline instead. Why?"

Klaus angles his head, a teasing lilt in his voice, "Don't you think it's a little late to inquire into my romantic past, love?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to be 'amicable', remember?" she points out, leaning her elbow next to his arm on the bench. "So, spill your deepest darkest secrets Klaus Mikaelson."

There's a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth like the barest flicker of a candle and he thinks, suddenly, that Rebekah's advice was misguided, this charade too slippery, the pull of the magic too strong. Because against all better judgement, he _wants_ to answer her questions. To cup his hands around that smile until it glows.

"My deepest darkest secrets? You would most certainly miss your flight," he says lightly.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, just the one then."

"Nothing so dark or mysterious about that, love," he replies. "I saw something in Caroline that Stefan also possessed, a core of darkness - or perhaps, determination. They tried to smother it, but in their secret moments, returned to that core over and over again." His finger brushes a loose curl of her hair, contemplatively. "I wanted them both to nourish that core, inhabit and embrace it. And, I suppose in their own way, they did. They just preferred to do so with each other."

Her eyes drift to the hand toying with her hair. He can sense another question behind her face, troubled thoughts of darkness and her own propensities. No doubt she imagines he saw the same core in her, the same piece of night hidden away.

* * *

_His fingers grow addicted to the inside of her mouth, her secretive tongue, the blunt press of her teeth._

" _How are you so good at that?" she asks as he easily pries into another crawfish and tosses its shell aside._

_He replies matter-of-factly, "Centuries of experience separating flesh from bone, love."_

_"Oh my god," laughter bubbles out of her, "You're_ so _full of it, you know that?"_

_Eyes dancing in mirth, she grabs his wrist and closes her mouth over the flesh in his hand._

* * *

He keeps his word, drives her to the airport in plenty of time. They're carried along in the same tranquil silence as before, but with a tinge of underlying tension he attributes to the tattoos. She puts up a rather amusing and flustered protest when he insists on hefting her luggage out of the trunk and onto a cart.

She mumbles a thank you and hurries to take the cart from him. They face each other briefly, surrounded by people embracing and kissing their goodbyes.

"I'll... see you around Klaus," she says, her stance growing awkward.

* * *

_He's hard just watching his fingers disappear between her lips. Klaus uses those same fingers to capture her jaw, to kiss her with purpose and an almost casual savagery, greedy for the salt and sweet of her tongue, the appetite he'd fed and fed again._

_She moans in ambrosiac delight, pulling on his collar when he breaks the kiss. He feels like he's plunging drunken into some bottomless deep. Her face is a cup of wine._

_He pulls her closer._

_"Marry me."_

* * *

"Travel safe, _wife_."

(She'd never asked him of course. Why he followed her onto the balcony that night. Whether he saw a secret heart of darkness in her too.)

"Please don't call me that," she protests with a gleam of warning in her eye. Nevertheless, she gives him a little wave before walking away. He finds his hands have bunched themselves inside his jacket, to keep from seizing her by the waist.

( _No_ , he would've answered her unasked question. There's nothing simple about light and dark, how they live inside people, how people live inside them both. And maybe he hadn't wanted to entice her so much as simply wanted her. Like his hybridity, his vengeance, his unchecked life. In defiance and desperation, without apology or regret. The only way he knew how to want.)

"Hey man, you got a light?"

The request comes from an older man wearing a linen shirt and hat leaning against a pillar on the sidewalk. Klaus hands him his lighter, watching Bonnie blend into a crowd of people inside the airport doors.

The man takes a long drag of a cigar. "Hard to see her go, huh? Don't blame you."

Cutting the stranger a cold glance in lieu of a gesture more expressive than he would like being caught on the many airport cameras, Klaus looks back to find the witch already gone, no doubt whisked away to the First Class lounge by an agent. He feels unreasonably irritated at losing sight of her.

"You should run after her, kiss her at the gate and shit. Like in those movies," the stranger suggests with a grin white as a knife. "She seems like she'd be into that-"

"Let's keep things civilized and cease discussing my wife, shall we?" Klaus replies coolly.

"Oh my _apologies_. Didn't know she was your wife," the man says with that sharp smile, tipping his hat as he goes. "Thanks for the light, man."

Alone on the curb, it dawns on Klaus how he must look, lingering exactly like a character in "those movies", searching for a glimpse of her. He stalks back to the car with an aimless frustration culling his chest, wishing he could grasp the knife himself, twist and wrench, do whatever is necessary to cut this - _cut her_ \- out from under his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I've fudged some necessary details about the realities of domestic air travel in the United States. Just go with it! Also, Klaus is right about City Park vs Cafe Du Monde. The former is a lovely and tranquil experience, the latter hellish.
> 
> Finally, I've been making some aesthetic edits for this fic, and thefudge made an AMAZING gifset based on Chapter 4. If you'd like to see them, they're on my Tumblr blog (irresistible-revolution dot tumblr dot com) under the hashtag #acaseofyou.
> 
> This story is very close to my heart, so do leave me some reviews because I love hearing your thoughts. And feel free to PM me here or on Tumblr anytime with fic related questions. Hope you enjoyed loves! xoxoxo


End file.
